Not-so-Distant-Star
by Genevieve22
Summary: Death, after all, broke in without demand, left without a victory, but the triumph of Light turned out to be unnecessary. You will not return.


Winter has come early this year.

Whomping Willow somehow dropped all its leaves and remained trembling sadly against all the blowing winds. As if by magic, I could tell if this joke was relevant. And therefore I am silent. I stand, shifting from one foot to the other, and am silent. Snow is falling. Snow creeps over the ground, now too cold to resist. Snow is falling in large shaggy flakes, which my cat loves to play with. Snow is descending straight from the sky. Snow is raging. The wintry weather doesn't look as beautiful as the Charms of the main hall of Hogwarts, but, admittedly, it's beautiful in its own way. I take off my mittens, warm my chilled fingers, put on my mittens and keep quiet.

In a good way, I should leave here, since the cemetery does not bring anything good by definition, and even more so in the light of recent events. But ... My light somehow suddenly faded; therefore I have nothing to be afraid of. Nothing else. I kneel, clearing the snow with my hand, and close my eyes. The cold air turns into clouds of steam, and they, clouds, rise into the sky. I wipe away the tears. Once upon a time, when I was not yet the main Know-It-All of the school but was the daughter of ordinary parents, we used to go to church on weekends. I admired beautiful frescoes, listened to prayers in Latin, not yet knowing that in a couple of years I would need Latin for completely other, not divine purposes, and simply believed. In those days, it was easier and simpler to believe that Light will definitely win over bad things. In general, without a wand in the pocket, one could live his life, confidently go forward, and know that one can always blame someone else. For example, That One, to whom we prayed every weekend in church. I grin wryly through tears.

For the first time in years, I want to pray again. Not for myself. Harry sits in his room and writes letters with no addressee. I would like to help him, to promise that everything will be fine, that one day ... But lying to myself is stupid, that's why I came here. Here, at least, I am alone and I can think. You know, it seems that in addition to the title of Know-It-All, I acquired a mania for no one's necessary sacrifice. I would like to be with you then ... You would be happy, Harry would not write letters to emptiness every year and would not blame himself for non-existent sins, Ron... And what about Ron? He has a different disposition, like his entire solar family. So everything would have been easier if I could have shielded you at that destined night in the Ministry.

I do not look at the dates; I know when it comes, one of the black dates. One of the curses of the early winter. And therefore I come here. Everybody has long been aware of this, but they prefer to remain silent. Well, I've always been a weirdo girl. And in my bedroom, there is a smell that smells of whiskey. Just like when I first saw you. A tramp who has seen and survived too much to simply open his soul. In my opinion, you were a much more sincere dog than a human, even though dogs were not able to speak. "Girl, you're too smart young witch."

You know, I have not forgotten ... I did not forget how I looked at you with Buckbeak l until my eyes ached, and Harry did not pull at my sleeve. That's how you flew to the stars. Who knew then that you would really be able to get over the edge? You would have a family. There would be a godson who made mistakes, confused spells and would not be afraid to look into the fireplace, knowing that he would never see you in there. You would grumble and rejoice. You would have a house, and there would be someone to write letters to. You would drink whiskey with Remus, you would wait for the winter. Real winter in all its glory, and not a piece of the sky from behind the grid of Azkaban, as you once said. Your home would have an address, and the address would have your name. Yours, written in ornate letters on an envelope, not scorched on a tapestry, and even more so, not engraved on a gravestone.

Death, after all broke without demand, left without a victory, but the triumph of good turned out to be unnecessary. You will not return. You once found me with a book of spells and promised to teach what was not written in the books, unless, of course, as smart as I agree to accept the help of someone like you. I was confused, and you slyly smiled and left. This is how I remember you: too strange, a secret that I so wanted to solve, but time again played against us. You went to heaven.

You have become the brightest star, inaccessible in their proximity. In the main hall of the school, it is still snowing, and in my bedroom, for some reason, it smells of whiskey. At night, a dog is howling muffled somewhere, driving my cat crazy, and I am looking to the velvet-purple sky and whispering about something I haven't said aloud. I miss you, Sirius, and I want you to see the winter you always dreamed about. I will see you again next year when it snows. And I'll send letters from Harry to the sky, sometimes even illusions can give us happiness. See you at the flame of the fire.

Until it snows next winter.


End file.
